


Seafood Fumble

by junkverse



Series: trans skate boys [4]
Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Gen, Implied Transphobia, Post-S1, Trans Male Character, Trans Otabek, excessive descriptions of cookery, trans Viktor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-30
Updated: 2017-07-13
Packaged: 2018-11-06 17:39:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,895
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11041038
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/junkverse/pseuds/junkverse
Summary: In which Viktor and Otabek chat, and find out they have something in common.





	1. Seafood Fumble

It was a cool spring evening in St. Petersburg. The season had just wrapped up, the whirlwind of competition trailing into a brief respite, into the lull before the rigour of the summer pre-season. Yuuri and Viktor had both medaled (Viktor had gotten silver at Russian Nationals, while Yuuri’s gold from Four Continents and his own nationals gleamed in a case in the living room), and they had been tossing wedding venue ideas back and forth, between the beginnings of choreography for the fall.

And they were out of noodles.

“I could’ve sworn I just bought some,” Yuuri said, perplexed. He was staring at the conspicuously empty place in the pantry where the rice noodles usually were, as if they’d materialize if he peered at the spot long enough.

Viktor shrugged beside him, looping an arm around Yuuri’s shoulders. “Maybe we forgot to get it and thought we did? It happens.”

“Or the piggy already ate it,” Yuri piped up. He was perched on a stool near the kitchen island, thumbing through something on his phone and pointedly not helping. Otabek was leaning on the kitchen island beside him -he had been peeking at whatever was on Yuri’s screen, but was now casting Yuri a displeased look.

“C’mon, Yura, don’t be rude,” Otabek said. “They didn’t have to invite us over.”

“Please, I could be as rude as I want and they’d still drag me over here,” Yuri said.

“Still…”

The pair of them bickered (if you could call Otabek gently admonishing Yuri “bickering”) for a little while as Viktor and Yuuri continued to regard the empty space in the cabinet. 

“We could do the recipe with rice,” Viktor suggested.

“I know,” Yuuri said, sounding put out. “It’s not the same without the noodles, though…”

Viktor hummed, tapping his fingers on Yuuri’s shoulder as he thought.

“There’s that specialty shop a few blocks away,” Viktor said. “Should be open, still.”

Yuuri grimaced. “But I’ve only been once or twice, and I still don’t know how to get th-”

“I’ll take him,” Yuri said.

“Wait, what,” Yuuri and Viktor said in unison.

“You sure?” Otabek said.

“Sure I’m sure,” Yuri said, rolling his eyes. He got up from the stool and stuffed his phone in his hoodie pocket. “I know the area, and Katsudon needs to learn his way around.”

“How… unusually helpful of you,” Yuuri said.

“I’m plenty helpful!” Yuri turned to Otabek, nudged him in the ribs. “Tell ‘em, Beka, I’m super helpful.”

“The most helpful,” Otabek said, dryly.

“Asshole,” Yuri said, with affection. He returned his attention to Yuuri and Viktor. “You comin’ or what, Katsudon?”

Yuuri paused before turning to Viktor and raising an eyebrow. “You two gonna be okay?”

Viktor nodded. “Of course. Take Makkachin with you? He needs a walk anyway.”

“Sure.” Behind them, Yuri grabbed the poodle’s leash, and Makkachin immediately sprung up from his bed near the TV. Yuuri kissed Viktor on the cheek. “We’ll be back soon as possible.”

“All right. Text me if you need anything.”

“We won’t,” Yuri said, and with that he and Yuuri and Makkachin were out, the door slamming behind them.

There was a beat, Viktor and Otabek regarding each other in sudden, heavy silence.

“Yuri didn’t say what you were cooking,” Otabek eventually said. He had a slight accent that softened the edges of his words, something Viktor hadn’t noticed the other (admittedly brief) times they’d spoken.

“Shrimp and noodle stir fry,” Viktor said. He hesitated. “You’re not, ah, allergic-?”

“No,” Otabek said. 

“Ah. Good.” Viktor tapped a finger against his chin, struggling to think of a way to break the awkward silence.

His eyes drifted towards the refrigerator. Well, he’d have to get dinner started sooner rather than later.

“Would you like to help?” Viktor asked, and Otabek seemed to relax a bit, seemingly relieved to have something to do.

“Sure,” he said.

“Excellent,” Viktor said, trying to disguise his own relief. He walked to refrigerator, opened the freezer, and retrieved a large package of frozen shrimp. “Put these in the sink, please.”

Otabek nodded, going towards the sink as Viktor returned his attention to the fridge. Viktor plucked produce from their places in the crisper: carrots, green onions, a knob of ginger, sugar snap peas and small, spindly mushrooms he couldn’t remember the name of. He nudged the refrigerator door closed with his hip, and suddenly became aware of just how precarious the armful of veg was.

“If you could, uh…” Viktor paused, not sure where to begin. One of the carrots felt like it was going to slip out of his grip, but his arms were too full to do anything about it.

Fortunately, Otabek stepped in, taking the vegetables out of Viktor’s hands. “I can clean these while you take care of the shrimp, yes?”

“Yes, thank you.”

Otabek nodded again as Viktor opened the package of shrimp, emptying it into a colander he had set aside earlier. He briefly ran the shrimp under warm water, the frost that clung to the tails and legs melting down. Beside him, Otabek carefully cleaned the carrots with a brush that had been waiting by the faucet, until they were a bright, vivid orange. Viktor joined him, the both of them washing and scrubbing at the produce until it gleamed, dewey with stray droplets of water.

“So, Yuri tells me you DJ?” Viktor said.

Otabek nodded, giving the mushrooms a perfunctory rinse. “Mostly in the off-season. No time otherwise.”

Viktor nodded, retrieving a set of large and small bowls from a cabinet by the sink. “Makes sense. What got you into it?”

“Dunno,” Otabek said with a shrug. Viktor handed him a bowl, and he dropped the now-clean mushrooms into it. “Always liked music, and my grandfather was a composer. Guess I inherited it.”

“Oh?” Viktor said as he retrieved a pair of cutting boards and set them on the kitchen island. “Your grandpa make anything I’d know?”

“Probably not.” Otabek shrugged, transferred the rest of the veg to the bowls and brought them beside the cutting boards. “I think he mostly did jingles for radio commercials.”

Viktor made a small noise of acknowledgement as he retrieved a pair of knives for the both of them. He held out one towards Otabek, handle first. “You take the mushrooms and carrots, I take the onions and peas?” 

Otabek nodded, accepting the knife and plucking a carrot from its bowl. Soon they were both engrossed in dicing the produce, the steady sound of knife meeting wood filling the otherwise quiet kitchen. It ought to have been awkward -neither of them had spoken much outside of competitions before this- but instead it was oddly companionable, chopping vegetables side-by-side.

After a time Viktor heard Otabek sigh, his chopping faltering.

“Something wrong?” Viktor said, glancing at him.

“Not exactly,” Otabek said. “Just… something that’s been on my mind.”

“Wanna talk about it?” Viktor asked. 

Otabek hesitated, giving Viktor a dubious look.

“What’s said in the kitchen stays in the kitchen,” Viktor said, pushing aside a pile of trimmed sugar snap peas. “Promise.”

Otabek didn’t say anything for a little while. Viktor let him have a moment, fetching a small bunch of green onions from their bowl. He cut off their roots, slowly working his way up the stalks.

“I’m transgender,” Otabek said.

Viktor froze, knife stopped mid-chop.

“Yura… told me he knew another skater like me,” Otabek said, carefully. “He didn’t say who, but I thought maybe it was someone on the Russian team, from how he talked about them.” His hands curled into fists against the countertop. “I’ve been trying to think of how to ask him to introduce us.”

Viktor swallowed, setting his knife down. “Introduce you,” he repeated.

“Yes. I was hoping to… talk with someone who had been in my shoes,” Otabek said. “I have some friends like me back home, but none of them are skaters, and I wanna know how they handle it, I guess.”

“You need advice, then?” Viktor asked.

“Not exactly?” Otabek said. “I mean, yeah, but mostly I just… wanna know for sure I’m not the only skater dealing with…” He gestured vaguely. “This.”

“You’re not,” Viktor said. “I can promise you that.”

“Oh, you… know them, too?”

“Ah. You could say that, yes.”

“Could... Could you-?”

“Introduce you?” Viktor said, with a small smile. “There won’t be a need for that, I think.”

Otabek frowned. “Why not?”

“Why do you think?” Viktor asked. He quirked an eyebrow, and cast Otabek a meaningful look.

Viktor hadn’t known Otabek for long, but he knew that Otabek was composed. Careful. Controlled. On the ice he was all force and passion and arresting movement, steps and jumps and spins so clean they made you snap to attention. A lot of talent, a lot of clear hard work for someone so young, held together by a carefully cultivated stoicism. On anyone else it would’ve come across as an aloof sort of arrogance, but Viktor thought he had recognised the glimmer of apprehension behind that mask of calm.

But the calm fell away, for a brief moment, and Viktor saw, in quick succession: comprehension, surprise, wonder, and something like joy. His whole face lit up, and he looked so much younger than eighteen.

“ _You?_ ” Otabek said. His mouth hung open a little.

“Me,” Viktor confirmed, spreading his hands in a _ta-da_ pose. “At your service.”

Otabek blinked. He seemed to become aware that he was gaping, as he rubbed a hand over his face, composing himself.

“O-oh,” he said. He swallowed, “I… I never thought-”

“No one does,” Viktor said, lightly. He returned his attention to the green onions. “Kind of the point. I’m not exactly open about it.”

Otabek made a noise that could’ve been either distressed or noncommittal, Viktor wasn’t sure. He didn’t look up from his dicing, but he heard Otabek shuffle in place, back towards the counter. He heard the chopping resume, metal thudding against wood.

“Your parents,” Viktor ventured, glancing at Otabek, “they’re…?”

“They’re good,” Otabek said. He seemed to relax a fraction. “They don’t… completely understand, I don’t think, but they’re good. Always have been.”

Viktor nodded. “That makes things a little easier,” he said, not quite able to suppress a rueful smile, “having them supporting you.”

“Hmm.”

Neither of them spoke for a bit, wordlessly prepping for the stir-fry. Viktor checked the shrimp in the sink -almost defrosted, probably enough to clean and de-vein them. He gave them one last rinse through the warm water before shaking them dry and bringing them over to the cutting boards. The vegetables were funneled into their own bowls, cutting boards wiped down, before the both of them set to peeling away the shrimps’ shells.

“So,” Otabek said, carefully, “did… do you bind?”

“Mm, not for a long while, now,” Viktor said. “Had surgery as soon as I could.” He paused. “You don’t bind on the ice, do you?”

Otabek gave him an alarmed look. “No, never. Did you?”

“Yes,” Viktor said. “Not my best idea, I’ll admit.”

He could’ve been wrong, but he thought Otabek cringed, just a little.

“I mean, I’m glad you have more sense than that,” Viktor said as he flicked his knife down the back of a shrimp. 

“Me too,” Otabek said under his breath, and Viktor laughed.

“What do you use instead of binding?” Viktor asked. “Out of curiosity.”

Otabek shrugged. “Sports bra and careful padding.” He tossed a cleaned shrimp into a waiting bowl. “I have my costumes tailored so that it’s not visible.”

“Hm, smart.” 

Another silence, more comfortable this time, as the shrimp were cleaned and set aside. Viktor retrieved a pot from the rack above the island, and set it on the stove.

“How did your coach take it?” Viktor asked as he went to retrieve some butter and chicken stock from the fridge.

“It… could’ve been-” Otabek stopped. “Uh, wait, is that chicken broth?”

Viktor glanced down at the container of stock, turning it over in his hands. “Yes?”

“Ah, I hate to ask this, but do you have, like, vegetarian broth or something?”

“Sure.” Viktor stowed the chicken stock back in the fridge and swapped it for a container of vegetable broth. “This okay?”

Otabek nodded. “Yes, thank you.”

“You’re allergic to chicken but not shrimp?” Viktor asked as he returned to the stove.

“No, it’s just,” Otabek paused, rubbed the back of his neck. “It’s not halal. That’s all.”

“Ah, okay.” Viktor tapped his chin with a finger as he thought for a moment, trying to remember what they’d been talking about. “What were we… your coach. How’d that go?”

Otabek tensed for a second before he sighed, and settled down on one of the kitchen stools. “He didn’t kick me off the ice right then, so I guess it went all right.”

Viktor winced, making a sympathetic noise. “Not the coach you have now, I assume.” He set the heat on high, added a knob of butter to the pot.

“No,” Otabek agreed. “Found Serik not long after. He doesn’t care, really, long as I keep winning medals.”

“Good,” Viktor said. The butter was starting to bubble, now. “Hand me those shells, would you?”

Otabek nodded, passing the bowl of shells to Viktor. “Did Yakov give you trouble when you…?”

“No,” Viktor said. “He was the first person who listened to me, actually.” The shells went in the pot, and the effect was almost immediate: the shells began to turn a vivid pink, and the smell of cooking shrimp began to drift through the kitchen.

“Yakov has always been… hm, I guess _permissive_ would be the word?” Viktor said. He poured the stock into the pot, the smell of shrimp now very slightly fainter, and infused with something more mild and almost floral. “Not terribly so, mind, he’s a hard-ass. But if he thought it’d help my skating even a little, he’d give it a shot. I guess he thought I’d skate better as a man.”

Otabek made a noise of agreement. “Sounds about right, from what Yuri’s told me of him.”

Viktor nodded, setting the heat to low and turning back towards Otabek. He leaned against the counter, folded his arms across his chest.

“You haven’t gotten any…” Viktor stopped, rephrased: “No one’s tried to, ah. Pry, have they?”

“As far as I know, no,” Otabek said. “Not that I pay much attention, anyway. My job is to skate, not to read tabloids.”

“Fair enough,” Viktor said with a light chuckle. “But it might do to keep an eye out, just in case.” He stopped for a moment, considering. “Things are… a little different from when I was younger, but… A rumor can still hurt a career. Or kill it. And the audience isn’t always kind.”

“I know,” Otabek said. His voice was soft under weight of that knowledge, that fear, and Viktor’s heart ached to hear it. 

“But my skating is what matters,” Otabek said, squaring his shoulders. “Who or what I am only matters if it affects my scores, and if people are so fixated on something like that, then I’ll just skate harder. No matter what they say.” 

Viktor regarded Otabek for a moment -the confidence in his posture, the set of his jaw, the surety in his voice. Eighteen and not quite at the prime of his career, and even under that glimmer of fear there was the certainty that it would work out.

“Then you’re braver than I am,” Viktor said.

Otabek blinked, surprised, and started to say something-

-just as Yuri and Yuuri opened the living room door, the sound of Makkachin’s nails clicking on the wood floor breaking the brief silence.

“We got the n-oh wow,” Yuri said. He took a deep breath. “Is that dinner?”

“The beginnings of it,” Viktor said. His usual smile clicked firmly into place, like he hadn’t just been warning Otabek of being outed. “Found the noodles?”

“Yeah,” Yuuri said, unhooking the leash from Makkachin’s collar. He dug into a bag slung around his free arm, producing two packages of rice noodles. “Sorry we were gone so long; we got turned around.”

“ _You_ got turned around,” Yuri corrected. “I knew exactly where we were going.”

Yuuri shook his head, mouthing _He did not_ before passing the noodles to Viktor and pecking him on the lips. Viktor grinned, pulling Yuuri into a brief hug as he set the noodles aside.

“Should be ready soon,” Viktor said. “Go and make yourselves comfortable; me and Otabek got this.”

“You sure?”

“Sure I’m sure,” Viktor said. He kissed Yuuri on the nose. “Find us something to watch?”

Yuuri nodded. “Just don’t burn the apartment down,” he teased.

“I think we’ll manage.”

Yuuri hummed, heading into the living room, Yuri and Makkachin following him. Viktor heard the TV turn on, and as he turned back to Otabek he could hear what sounded like good-natured bickering over the sounds of the streaming menu.

Otabek had retrieved a large skillet and a bottle of oil while Viktor and Yuuri had been talking, drizzling a little oil into the skillet and setting the heat to high. Viktor made a pleased sound as he grabbed the vegetables and shrimp and brought them towards the stove.

“Ooh, aren’t you a fine sous chef,” Viktor said. He retrieved a straining spoon from a drawer, and handed it to Otabek. “Get the shells out of the stock for me, please.”

Otabek nodded, slowly running the spoon through the stock, shells dumped into a nearby trash bin. 

“Can’t help but think takeout would be easier,” Otabek mused.

“Probably,” Viktor said. “But food tastes better when you make it with friends, yeah?”

Otabek didn’t reply. But he was smiling, open and warm.

Dinner went along quickly, now: shrimp sauteed in the pan, then set aside to make room for onions, grated ginger, and a bit of garlic. Stock and soy sauce and oyster sauce in, then vegetables, then the noodles, all of it simmering until the noodles turned a gorgeous golden color. The smell of it was rich, divine. More than once Yuri poked his head into the kitchen in an attempt to steal some noodles before being shooed away by Viktor. As dinner cooked, Viktor and Otabek talked, about skating and music and the peculiar twist of gender that they shared.

Soon the sauce and stock were gone, soaked up by the noodles. The shrimp was added back in, the whole mix given a final dash of soy sauce and a quick stir before being portioned off into bowls. Yuri cheered as Viktor and Otabek brought dinner into the living room, bowls and chopsticks (or a fork, in Otabek’s case) passed around as they all tried to fit onto Viktor’s tiny couch. Makkachin was gently scooted off, despite much begging and whining. Yuri was not quite perched on one of the couch arms, and Yuuri was in Viktor’s lap, but it was comfortable despite that. They dug in, chatting, the show Yuuri had put on earlier dissolving into pleasant background noise.

It was nice. Not just having all four of them together, outside of the rink, but having someone to talk to, even if only for a little while. Someone who understood. Viktor had gone through his transition alone, essentially, and gone through his career with the knowledge that he was likely the only trans figure skater in the world. Or may as well have been.

It was good to be proven wrong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> another fic I had sitting in my WIPs folder for way too damn long (seriously, I started this back in _January_.) finally sat down and made some edits today, and it all clicked into place. funny how that works.
> 
> title is a riff off of Penguin Cafe Orchestra's "Salty Bean Fumble," which was chosen solely because there's a food thing in the name. (and also it's a good song.) the recipe described here is a favorite of mine - it probably doesn't take nearly as long to cook as I made it sound like it does here, but it makes a lot and is super tasty. I figure Yuuri taught it to Viktor when he moved in.
> 
> (you can also find me over on [twitter](https://twitter.com/junkverse))
> 
> (also, fun fact: the working title for this was "'same gender???' 'same gender!!'")
> 
>  
> 
> ETA: edited to include some corrections on what bits, specifically, of this stir-fry are halal/haram. I got mixed up, apologies! Thank you to IllustrativeWall and Kautar for the corrections. (And if I goofed up again, feel free to set me straight.)


	2. Fumble Follow-Up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Otabek and Yuri talk after dinner

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I ended up doing a quick coda/epilogue for this (though it took awhile...), mostly to clarify a small plot point. also I wanted to write more of Yuri and Otabek. they're fun.

It wasn’t until after dinner, after Yuri and Otabek had excused themselves from Viktor and Yuuri’s apartment, after Otabek was halfway back to Yuri’s place, cool spring air whipping past him and Yuri as they drove through the streets of St. Petersburg, that something occurred to him.

“You did that on purpose, didn’t you?”

Yuri sniffed, tightened his grip around Otabek’s waist. “Did what on purpose.”

“Left me alone with Viktor,” Otabek said. He slowed the motorcycle, the engine winding down to a low growl as he pulled it into the car park near Lilia’s apartment. “So we could talk.”

Otabek didn’t see Yuri roll his eyes, but he could almost hear it. “I wouldn’t wish anyone being alone with Viktor, he’s so fuckin-”

“Nice,” Otabek said.

“Annoying,” Yuri corrected. He let go of Otabek’s waist as Otabek pulled into a spot near the entrance. “Stupid. Old. An asshole who needs to mind his _goddamn business_ -”

“And you left me with him to fend for myself?” Otabek asked. He _tssk_ ed, killed the motorcycle’s engine. “Rude.”

“Well, I knew _you_ could handle him,” Yuri said. He hopped off the bike, stowing his helmet in a side compartment. “Like, I know he’s a giant, but you could totally take him.” He made a fist, gave the air a quick jab as if to demonstrate.

Otabek snorted. “Thanks for your faith in me, then.”

There was a pause. Yuri cast Otabek a look that one might describe as worried, though Yuri would probably deny it.

“...He wasn’t, like. Weird, or anything?”

“No,” Otabek said, tucking his helmet under his arm. “He was cool. Made sure I wasn’t doing anything stupid.”

Yuri raised an eyebrow. “You? Do something stupid?”

“I _did_ let you into that club in Barcelona,” Otabek said. “And stay up all night helping you with your exhibition skate. And also take your glove off with my t-”

“Whatever.”

“Wow, it’s almost like I only do stupid stuff with _you_ , Yura, so-”

“ _Whatever!_ ” Yuri punched Otabek’s shoulder, but there was no effort or malice behind it, and they both laughed.

Neither of them said anything for a little while, taking their time walking towards the building entrance, letting the relative quiet of the neighborhood fill the space between them. The night was cool and lit sodium yellow around them, a faint sliver of the moon visible between the shapes of the surrounding apartments. A not-insignificant part of Otabek wished they could’ve driven around more, cruised through the city streets until the small hours of the morning, just him and Yuri and the thin waning moon and whatever stars were bright enough to outshine the light pollution. But Lilia kept a strict curfew, and Otabek didn’t particularly want to earn her ire.

Besides. These small moments were good, too.

“Thank you,” Otabek said, as they reached the landing of Lilia’s building

Yuri looked up at him, blinking owlishly. “For what?”

“For making that happen,” Otabek said. He fiddled with a loose seam on one of his gloves, frowned. “I don’t… meet people like me often. And never other skaters like me. Til today.” 

Yuri nodded. “It helped?”

Otabek stopped, leaning against the step railing, thinking back to the apartment. To Viktor’s casual (if at first awkward) friendliness, his willingness to listen, to that undercurrent of fear he’d spotted that had been… oddly reassuring, like Otabek wasn’t the only one who second-guessed his interactions, his decisions, weighing potential consequences against the burning desire to simply _be_. 

To Viktor calling him _brave_.

“It did,” Otabek said, nodding in return.

“Good,” Yuri said, bumping his shoulder against Otabek’s side -Yuri’s version of a hug, he’d learned. “And you’re welcome.”

Otabek smiled, bumping Yuri’s shoulder back, before walking up the steps with him, stepping out of dim of the evening and into the bright and the warmth.

**Author's Note:**

> another fic I had sitting in my WIPs folder for way too damn long (seriously, I started this back in _January_.) finally sat down and made some edits today, and it all clicked into place. funny how that works.
> 
> title is a riff off of Penguin Cafe Orchestra's "Salty Bean Fumble," which was chosen solely because there's a food thing in the name. (and also it's a good song.) the recipe described here is a favorite of mine - it probably doesn't take nearly as long to cook as I made it sound like it does here, but it makes a lot and is super tasty. I figure Yuuri taught it to Viktor when he moved in.
> 
> (you can also find me over on [twitter](https://twitter.com/junkverse))
> 
> (also, fun fact: the working title for this was "'same gender???' 'same gender!!'")
> 
>  
> 
> ETA: edited to include some corrections on what bits, specifically, of this stir-fry are halal/haram. I got mixed up, apologies! Thank you to IllustrativeWall and Kautar for the corrections. (And if I goofed up again, feel free to set me straight.)


End file.
